In Southern California, the city of Los Angeles is fringed with more than 20 miles of beaches that stretch from one millionaires' playground to another - each one wider and seemingly more golden than the next.

Which makes it doubly strange that one of the most popular surfing schools - so popular that if you don't turn up early enough, you may be turned away - is right in front of the gigantic Edison Power Plant, down on lowly Manhattan Beach.

Mary Setterholm - the wiry blonde and a former West Coast champion surfer - runs a women-only surfing class there on Saturdays, family days on Sundays, and week-long clinics for boys and girls (taught separately, because they learn differently) in the summer.

She explains that if she were up on one of the classier beaches, the city would take around 40 per cent of her fees.

The beach is right next to the bike path which stretches from Palos Verdes in the south right up to celebrity-strewn Malibu.

On the way, it passes Redondo Beach, where an Irish-Hawaiian called George Freeth first did surfing displays to an admiring public in 1907, using a 16ft-long hardwood surf board.

These days, the sight of 20 women rolling over on their surfboards in the sand raises barely a flicker of interest from the other Californians jogging, biking, in-line skating and power-walking along.

Under Mary's watchful eye, we are spitting out sand grains and learning to turtle (flip under our light foam learner boards), to straighten our arms into 'pop-ups', so the water passes beneath us, thus 'neutralising' the wave, and to jump into a crouch and take the classic Beach Boys stance on top of the board.

Safety is a top priority: avoiding other people, not getting knocked over by a wave, not drowning.

Even so, that first walk into the water is scary.

There follows an exhausting interlude where we miss waves, or catch waves and immediately fall off, or ride waves but have to jump off to avoid other beginners floating nervously in the water.

Then, one after another, we catch waves and stay on.

The length of time may be deceptive - it feels like forever - but that first run is as sweet and addictive as a perfect golf drive. We are stoked.

There is something incredible and appalling about the surge of power when your board gets into the right position.

It is as if a catapult has been released.

The water, so calm from a distance, develops muscles and throws you forward with extraordinary force.

The view, as you sail in, arms flailing, is the monster power station which caused a crisis in LA last year by nearly going bankrupt.

It's a warning. Power isn't everything.

Back on the beach, wholesome surf dudes are foraging in the tent.

'We do not apologise for junk food,' says Mary, with her arm down a crisp bag the size of a hop sack, 'GatorAid, donuts, potato chips. We are so into food.'

For me, it's time to go. I'm tired - worn out, actually.

It's a mile to the nearest cup of coffee.

I have already enrolled for next week and I am going to bring my Californian cousin, Nic, who dates a surfer but has never tried it herself.

'Wow Mary, I'm really stoked,' I say bravely. 'That was awesome!'

Ha, cracked it. She offers me a surfer's high-fives.

And what do I do? I put out my hand for a English handshake. How embarrassing is that?